


Where you invest your love, you invest your life.

by thepeopletoomustrise



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, M/M, Modern AU, i guess, les mis kink meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:26:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepeopletoomustrise/pseuds/thepeopletoomustrise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Even when I’m dying, you…” a watery cough came from somewhere deep in the pit of his lungs, “…can’t stand me, can you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where you invest your love, you invest your life.

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for this prompt on the Kink Meme:  
> I'd like to read a fic in which Grantaire's hurt badly (maybe to protect enjolras?) and Enjolras kneels beside him and talks to him because he can't let grantaire fall asleep and "you said you'd do anything for me so this is it, don't die, please" untill help arrives (modern au maybe?) "
> 
> ** Modern AU ** (where none of them have cell phones ok)

It had begun like any normal protest, like any of the ones they’ve had before. Enjolras had organized a strike against a local government politician who dangerously opposed many of the ideals that him and his comrades fought to protect. Late that night the Amis had formed, taking their places as they had done many times before; with Enjolras at the center, waving his flag proudly as a contrast to picket signs that many of the others held. 

A few hours past midnight and many of his friends were growing weary of the sign holding or flag-waving that the strike entailed, and Enjolras had eventually granted them permission to make a stop at a local bar for a short drink to replenish whatever was left of their spirits. That left behind Jehan, Courfeyrac, Enjolras and Grantaire (Enjolras was more than surprised that Grantaire hadn’t gone with the group of alcohol hungry friends.)

None of them knew that trouble was stirring, and so when a mob of angry police officers had gathered to try and ‘reason with’ the angry citizens, little reasoning went on at all. In the chaos that was sparked by a punch thrown at Jehan, the area was a flurry of shouts, of flying fists and thrashing arms. Four of them against a police force, hours before dawn, were not very promising odds. 

In fact, that police knew of this little brigade, and had grown very sick of their antics. And tonight, they were not going to put up with it. 

In the confusion of the fight and struggle, somehow, somewhere, a shot was fired, aimed surely for Enjolras, the instigator and leader of what the police saw to an ‘outward display of disruption to society.’ Whether it was intentional or not did not matter. What mattered was that the shot never did hit Enjolras.

It hit Grantaire. 

Given that, technically, the protestors had done nothing to provoke such attack, the now panic-ridden police fled the scene, none of them bothering to own up to the shot. And the four were alone once again. 

It had all happened so fast.

The shock of the pavement on Enjolras’ knees brought him back to harsh reality. He had dove instantly to the side of the victim who had jumped in front of him and ignored the dull throbbing that echoed through his legs from the blow. “Grantaire?!” his voice came in a throaty panic that he couldn’t remember ever hearing before. 

A small cough sputtered through the man’s lips, “Who’s Apollo now?”

He could hear Jehan and Courfeyrac panicking behind him, babbling words he didn’t have the patience to try and understand. The crimson stain of blood began to bloom somewhere in Grantaire’s abdomen, and instinctively Enjolras pressed his hands against it. They stuck against the warm green fabric of his shirt, saturated with blood. 

“We need help!” Enjolras panted, desperate, and his gaze flew up to his friends. “W-Where the Hell is Joly?! We need Joly! Or a phone booth, to call for help! Or…” He stared up at his friends, who were unmoving, their faces gray and grief stricken. “Why aren’t you doing anything?! Find him! Do something!” 

“Enjolras…” 

“I said to do something! Dammit, Courfeyrac, he needs help!” 

But both men knew that help would not be found at this point. Blood bloomed like a rose from underneath the sputtering man. 

But, advice from Enjolras was an order, therefore both men fled- Jehan to search for the nearest phone and Courfeyrac to flee towards the closest bar.

And then there were two. 

Enjolras looked down at the man he had his hand pressed firmly against. Grantaire writhed slightly underneath him, and wherever the blood was coming from wasn’t stopping. It wasn’t doing what blood was supposed to do, as he learnt in his anatomy classes. It wasn’t keeping him alive. His breath was laced with struggle, and a thin wheezing could be heard throughout every intake of oxygen. His eyelids were dropping, and he stared up at his Apollo, who looked even more angelic from his current situation. 

“What is it?” the man slurred, giving his savior an almost-drunken grin. “Surprised I don’t bleed… alcohol?” but his last word was cut up in the middle by a sharp groan of discomfort, and Enjolras felt his heart do a somersault. 

“Shut up Grantaire,” he snapped, and he used a free, bloodstained hand to feel for his friend’s dwindling pulse. Dwindling was an understatement. 

The next words that Enjolras heard were eerie and cold, but also laced with a sort of acceptance that made him want to vomit, “I’m dying.” 

“I said shut up!” the Leader gritted his teeth, pressing both hands firmly against the gaping wound that spilled blood. Red seeped through his fingers and trickled in steady streams down Grantaire’s jacket. “Joly’s coming. You’re going to be just fine.”

“You’re full of crap,” his breath seized for a moment, and he made a horrendous coughing noise that made blood flow faster, in spurts, through Enjolras’ fingers. Enjolras ignored him and looked up, staring desperately to the street around him, praying furiously for help. Any sort of help. His hands shook violently. “I’m dying.” 

“Stop fucking saying that!” Enjolras’ voice came in panic, not anger, and he had no idea what possessed him to yell. His hands slipped around the wound, and Grantaire’s moan in return was like a kick to the gut. Crap. 

Grantaire’s lips curled into some sort of small smile that dripped with underlying agony, and his voice was a whisper, “Even when I’m dying, you…” a watery cough came from somewhere deep in the pit of his lungs, “…can’t stand me. Figures.”

“Stop,” he wasn’t sure when his voice had become a pitiful excuse of a protest, but his words seemed to shake now, to break off in a lingering pain that even he didn’t understand. Grantaire’s body was trembling now, and it was not just from the cold. 

“I-It’s true,” the air of agony was present in every word Grantaire spoke. “You disdain me, Enjolras. I’ve heard you say it. M-More than once, and…” another attack of thick coughs, “…you’re a blind idiot.” 

The last words stung Enjolras more than he would have expected them to, and he clenched his fingers around the wound in a feeble effort to make his hands stop shaking. Obviously, it didn’t work. “I’m not blind,” the man argued back, and his voice was weakening by the second; but he talked, did anything to keep Grantaire awake. He felt his stomach twist into knots as he looked into his eyes, and suddenly, he didn’t care what he said anymore. His filter dissolved. There was no time for lies anymore. “I’m not blind. I’ve never been blind to you, Grantaire.” 

At these words, the man stared up at his Apollo with eyes that widened and fixated on the man’s face. It was then when he realized his lips were trembling. It was not a death-induced illusion. “You are blind,” he stammered, and Enjolras’ heart thumped harder, loud and infuriated. “I’ve never believed in anything, but you. And you never bothered to…” another choke, “…to notice.” 

“I did notice,” Enjolras suddenly felt desperate when he saw Grantaire’s eyelids droop further, getting closer to being shut all the way, to becoming sealed forever. His breath hitched in his throat and he took a hand from the wound and pressed it against the man’s shoulder, giving him a shake, “I did notice, Grantaire! You need to stay awake! Open your damn eyes and listen to me!” Advice from Enjolras was an order. Grantaire’s eyes fluttered open, but his vision was hazy. Weak. Distant. “If you don’t stay awake, I swear to God I will hide your booze!” he shook him again, desperate. 

“B-Bossy,” the man stuttered, and a breath of relief tumbled from Enjolras’ lips. His words had lengthened into a drawn out slur, but he was still alive, still breathing. 

“I have always noticed you! D-Don’t you dare die on me without letting me put my two words in!” Grantaire seemed to get some sort of attention back, and his eyes tried desperately to focus on his leader, on his Apollo, on his friend… “I’ve noticed you, Grantaire. I’ve noticed you and I’ve noticed the way you look at me and the way you talk to me and the way you lick your lips when I lecture on Patria and the way you talk to the others so highly of my hair and the way you smirk when I argue back and the way…” his rambling turned into a full speed run on sentence, words falling over each other in a rush to make him here; to make him understand. 

Even Enjolras, with his silver tongue, could come unraveled at a moment of unyielding fear and desperation. 

“I h-have people to lead! I don’t have any damn time to think about you or think about how you make me feel like nothing that France has ever made me feel before or the way that I don’t really want to argue with you or the way that…” and something, something deep in him snapped, and his words fell apart when his face crumpled, hot tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “I tried to scare you away, Grantaire! But you’re so fucking stubborn!” He cursed under his breath and struggled to wipe his face against his shoulder. 

Grantaire let the words he heard sink in, and he existed now in some sort of euphoria, where Enjolras seemed to be glowing and the world around him seemed to be dark. Every breath was horribly labored, but he managed a smile so small that Enjolras had to squint to see it, “With love often comes stubbornness," somehow, some way, he mustered a small smirk, "...oh dear Apollo.” 

Something broke in the pit of his stomach. Enjolras furiously fought against tears. He wouldn’t cry. He would not freaking cry. 

Grantaire’s callused hand found its way, somehow, to fall overtop of Enjolras’ that rested on his abdomen. Warm blood stuck them together, and Enjolras made some sort of noise that melded itself into a gasp. 

“You claimed you’d do anything for me,” he stammered, eyes stinging, “so this is it. This is it, Grantaire. You can’t die on me.” Grantaire just gave him a hazy smile, so Enjolras shook his head furiously, breathless. “No! You have to answer! Answer me, Grantaire!” 

“Your hands are shaking.”

Enjolras bit his lip. The air felt colder. A lump formed in his throat and he couldn’t breathe as he watched Grantaire’s face grow paler, the color in his cheeks dissolving rapidly. “Stay awake,” he murmured again, weak, his resolve falling away. 

It was then when he heard the footsteps of rushing people. The panic-ridden voices of Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Joly. Jehan’s soft crying. He looked up at his friends, and he felt on the verge of throwing up. “J-Joly, Combeferre… help… he needs help!” his voice was pitifully desperate now, like nothing any of them had heard before. 

No one made a move. 

Enjolras stared at them in disbelief. The world fell away, and any sense of calm or clear-headedness vanished completely, “Help me! He needs help!” But no one stirred. Joly stared at him with tears in his eyes, and the small shake of his head told Enjolras the truth. 

A truth that stung so badly that Enjolras couldn’t breathe. 

Grantaire looked at him through drooping eyelids, and he said softly, brokenly, “They know too. It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late,” Enjolras pleaded, and soon he was running the palm of his hand down Grantaire’s arms, down his cheek, or in his hair; just to feel the heat of his skin, to remind him that he was breathing and that he had something to live for. “Grantaire!” 

Grantaire’s free hand had found its place on Enjolras’ knee, and he gave him a soft, hazy smile. A smile that showed he was already half out of this world, and Enjolras stared at him in disbelief and with tears running hotly down his cheeks and mixing with blood. “I took the bullet… for a reason. You have a place in this world. An important place in this world, and…” his voice grew so quiet that Enjolras had to try to stop making noises to hear him, “…and no world should ever be deprived of you, of the light you bring. Of the light you brought to me…” his eyelids were fluttering shut slowly. 

“You have a place in this world, too!” he said in reply, and his words were so desperate and torn that he couldn’t stop the cries from nestling into his voice. His breathing was ragged, and he clutched a hand to Grantaire’s, “You have a place in mine!”

But it was too late. 

He fell over his friend’s body and sobbed for a long while. It wasn’t until Combeferre picked him up and carried him away, his breathing fast and pained and panicked, that he left the scene.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm insecure about this but I also got emotional so we'll see how that worked out


End file.
